The Girl with the Make-Believe Husband

She looked faintly repulsed.

He leaned in with a cheeky expression. “I’m quite clean now.”

“I should hope so. I’ve been sharing a room with you for more than a week.”

“Speaking of which . . .” he murmured. Neither of them had been paying much attention, but their feet had found their way back to the Devil’s Head.

“Home again,” she quipped.

He held the door for her. “Indeed.”

The crowd in the main room seemed more raucous than usual, so he placed a hand at the small of her back and gently steered her along the perimeter to the stairs. He knew he could not hope to find better accommodations than this, but still, it was no place for a lady to take up permanent residence. If they had been in England, he would never—

He shook off the thought. They weren’t in England. Normal rules did not apply.

Normal. He couldn’t even remember what the word meant. There was a lump on his head that had swallowed three months of his memory, his best friend had disappeared so completely that the army hadn’t even noticed he was missing, and at some point in the not-so-distant past he’d married a woman by proxy.

A proxy marriage. Good Lord, his parents would be aghast. And truthfully, so was he. Edward was not like his devil-may-care younger brother Andrew, flouting rules simply for the fun of it. When it came to the important things in life, he did them properly. He wasn’t even certain a proxy marriage would be considered legal back in England.

Which brought him to another point. Something wasn’t quite right about this entire situation. Edward wasn’t sure what Thomas had said or done to induce him into marriage with Cecilia, but he had a feeling there was more to it than she had told him. There was likely more to it than she knew herself, but the truth would never be known unless Edward regained his memory.

Or they found Thomas.

At this point, Edward wasn’t certain which was less likely.

“Edward?”

He blinked, focusing his gaze on Cecilia. She was standing next to the door to their room, a faintly amused smile on her face.

“You had that look again,” she said. “Not the remembering one, the thinking terribly hard one.”

This did not surprise him. “Thinking terribly hard about almost nothing,” he lied, pulling out the key to their room. He did not want to reveal his suspicions to her, not just yet. Edward did not doubt Thomas’s reasons for arranging this marriage—his friend was a good man and certainly wanted what was best for his sister—but if she had been persuaded to marry him under false pretenses she would be furious.

Maybe Edward should be trying harder to ferret out the truth, but honestly, he had bigger issues to deal with just now, and when it came right down to it, he liked being married to Cecilia.

Why on earth would he upset the happy balance they’d achieved?

Unless . . .

There was one reason he’d rock that boat.

He wanted to make love to his wife.

It was time. It had to be time. His desire . . . His need . . . They had been threatening to explode from within since the moment he’d seen her.

Maybe it was because he had figured out who she was from her conversation with Colonel Stubbs. Maybe it was because even from his hospital bed he could sense her concern and devotion, but when he opened his eyes and saw her for the first time, her green eyes filled first with worry, then with surprise, he’d felt an incredible rush of lightness, as if the very air around him was whispering in his ear.

Her.

She’s the one.

And weak as he was, he’d wanted her.

But now . . .

He might not have regained his full strength, but he was definitely strong enough.

He looked over at her. She was still smiling, watching him as if she had a delicious little secret, or maybe as if she thought he did. Either way, she looked terribly amused as she cocked her head to the side and asked, “Are you going to unlock the door?”

He turned the key in the lock.

“Still thinking very hard about nothing?” she teased as he opened the door for her.

No.

He wondered if she was aware of the delicate dance they played every evening when it was time for bed. Her nervous swallow, his stolen glance. Her quick grab of their one book, his studious attention to the lint that had—or more often had not—gathered on his scarlet coat. Every night Cecilia went about her business, filling the room with nervous chatter, never quite at ease until he crawled into the opposite side of the bed and bid her good night. They both knew what his words really meant.

Not tonight.

Not yet.

Did she realize that he too was waiting for a signal? A look, a touch . . . anything to let him know that she was ready.

Because he was ready. He was more than ready. And he thought . . . maybe . . . she was too.

She just didn’t know it yet.

When they entered their small room, Cecilia scurried over to the basin on the table, which she’d requested the inn fill with water each evening. “I’m just going to wash my face,” she said, as if he did not know what she was doing when she splashed herself with the water, as if she had not done the same thing every evening.

As she performed her ablutions, his hands went to the buttons on his cuffs, unfastening each before sitting on the edge of the bed to remove his boots.

“I thought supper was quite delicious this evening,” Cecilia said, tossing the quickest of glances over her shoulder before reaching into the wardrobe for her hairbrush.

“I agree,” he replied. This was part of their duet, steps in the intricate choreography that led to them entering the bed on opposite sides and then ended with him pretending he did not wake up each morning with her in his arms. She was checking to see if he was behaving differently, assessing his expression, his movements.

He did not need her to tell him this to know that it was true.

Her eyes were like glass, pale green and luminous, and she hadn’t a prayer of hiding her emotions. He could not imagine her ever keeping a secret. Surely it would show on her face, on those full lips that she never quite seemed to keep still. Even when she was quiet there were hints of motion in her expression. Her brow would draw down, or her lips would part, just wide enough for a breath to pass through. He did not know if everyone else saw this in her. He supposed at first glance she might seem serene. But if you took the time to look at her, to see beyond the oval face and even features that had been captured in that second-rate miniature Edward had studied so many times . . . That was when you saw it. The tiny bits of motion, dancing in time to her thoughts.

Sometimes he wondered if he could watch her forever without being bored.

“Edward?”

He blinked. She was seated at the small vanity, regarding him with curiosity.

“You were staring,” she said. She had taken her hair down. It was not quite as long as he’d thought it might be, back when pieces were falling from their pins that day at the hospital. He’d watched her brush it every night, her lips silently counting the strokes. It was almost mesmerizing how the texture and shine seemed to change as she pulled the brush through the strands.

“Edward?”

Again, she’d caught him drifting off. “Sorry,” he said. “My mind keeps wandering.”

“I’m sure you’re very tired.”

He tried not to read too much into her pronouncement.

“I’m tired,” she said.

There were so many levels to that simple, two-word sentence. The simplest: It was a very long day. I’m tired.

But he knew there was more to it than that. Cecilia was always careful to make sure that he was not overtaxing himself, so there was certainly a bit of: If I’m tired, then you must be too.

Then there was the truth. The simplest, most basic core of it all: If I tell you I’m tired . . . If you think I’m not up to it . . .

“May I?” he murmured, reaching for the brush.

“What?” Her pulse fluttered in her throat. “Oh, there is no need. I am almost done.”

“Just a bit more than half.”

Confusion painted a wrinkle onto her brow. “I’m sorry?”

“You’ve done twenty-eight strokes. You normally do fifty.”